Pandora
by baao
Summary: One shot: an exploration of identity and how the numerous roles a Tracy may have to undertake could affect their sense of self. Can be read from the perspective of any of the five brothers.


He is many things. He is a son, he is a brother, he is a friend. He wonders, in the solace of his own mind, if he is the mesh of traits and identities that have been created for him, those that have been used to sculpt him into what others want him to be.

Their saviour, their guide, their hope.

This mind is safe, a haven of swirling thoughts and deafening silence that allows him to be everything and nothing. A place where labels mean anything one's heart desires and emotions are at the forefront where they are not permitted elsewhere.

When he is alone, he can be what he is. But, compared to the lives he has seen and lost, he is nothing.

In the moment of a rescue, there is nothing but himself and those he is fighting to save.

There can be nothing in this moment. There is a goal that must be achieved in order to preserve the identities, the thoughts, and the dreams of those screaming and sobbing beneath the rubble. His identity is secondary; faceless, nameless, but a light in the encompassing and suffocating darkness of death and despair.

In this moment, he can slip into the role of God, choosing who to save and who to die. He brings hope and comfort; he brings destruction and the sudden realisation of morality.

Behind the anonymous mask, he is judge, jury, and executioner. If he does not, who will? The wailing children, the hysterical survivors, and the silence of those condemned. Their voices haunt him, their eyes torment him, and their tears stain him; they poison his being and corrupt it with guilt and despair when his victims realise that he is not nothing – he is everything and it is horrifying and euphoric, the emotions and desperation clouding and butchering their minds until they are, eventually, left with nothing but an image. A blurred outline of a god they think they saw, a distorted face hidden by mountains of dirt and blood and sweat and tears.

Eventually the emotions flitter away with the fragility of life. He is their saviour or their demise. The name saviour remains, attached to a man they can scarcely recall. It remains, but he continues to be nothing.

In the comfort of home, he is nothing but what others perceive him to be.

He is their brother, their friend, their rock. He moves through the identities: for his father, he is pride and glory; for his brothers, he is ambition and achievement. He guides them, takes them by the hand and leads them to success and happiness. He removes the hurt and the suffering from their eyes and replaces it with hope with a gentle smile that doesn't quite reach the eyes and leaves a bittersweet and lingering memory to those who witness the rare, intimate moments.

He asks for nothing and gives everything. The imprint is confusing, but never questioned. They are happy, and so he is happy.

He never wavers, never stutters or stumbles over who he is. He is firm and strong and certain; to them, he is comfort and care, steady and stable, always there without a drop of judgement.

His identity is perceived to be a constant. Solidity in the face of ambiguity, there is no doubt of this and no regard that he changes like the tide and shifts like the seasons.

The shifts and masks smother him. He is all the things, but he is nothing in comparison to them.

In the security of his dreams, he is nothing but a thought, a memory that has waxed and waned throughout time.

Here, he can be nothing. He can be everything. There is no consequence or result. He exists purely as an idea, a fake image glued to the inside of his eyelids that taunts him with what he could have been.

He could have been a sportsman, a politician, a scholar.

He could have been a cowboy, if the six year old trapped in the deepest corner of his subconscious had anything to say about his choices.

In this realm, he is truly free, but in this freedom, he becomes nothing. A black, shapeless void which trembles and shakes under the pressure of his mind. There is no one here to force an identity, a name, or a sense of belonging. He is alone, and he is content, he thinks.

When one carries an expectation, it is difficult to abandon it due to fear of rejection or disappointment. Yet here, in the abyss of his dreams, he can let them all crack and collapse and allow himself to emerge from the devastation.

He is not his own saviour or guide. But he holds desperately the tiny slither of hope that has managed to defy all the odds and remain with him, despite the death and glory that has suffocated and clutched at him.

It is not the hope he presents to his victims. The last resort that dying people cling to through fear of the unknown which he brushes away from his own fear of failure. They worship him – he brings them life and he brings them death. In the moment of a rescue, most will accept either, whether it is willing or not. He cannot be close; he is nameless and faceless, a compilation of features who either saves or abandons them when they are at their most vulnerable.

It is not the hope he presents to his family. The bright beacon of achievement which his father smiles upon and his brothers gorge on. He denies it; they are their own achievements, they don't need to feed off his. He remains detached from their adoring eyes and proud gazes through his fear of rejection; if he falls once, they will leave him. He gives everything, and asks for nothing. It has always been this way, and this way it will remain.

It is the hope that he has for himself. The hope that he will become the saviour more than the executioner; the hope that he will never be left to carry the burden alone. It is the hope that has clung to him since he was a child, though over time, it has shrunk and decayed.

In his dreams, he can understand that whilst he is the identities crafted by his family and shaped by all he has met in his life, he is neither nothing nor everything.

He is the saviour and the guide; he is the son and the brother. But more than that, he is the hope which fuels them all.

He gives those who are within an inch of death a reason to cling to life or provides them with the bravery to slip away into Death's waiting arms.

He presents his brothers with ambition and encourages them to achieve everything they can; they hope to be him, and so he guides them to their paths and pushes them into success.

He tends his own flame of hope in the solace of his mind, nurses its weak glow and coaxes it back into life. In the most intimate, private moments of his dreams, he allows it to engulf him and it gives him the courage to continue when there is nothing but bleak destruction across his subconscious. He succumbs to its tempting light and revels in its childish promises of optimism. In this moment, he only possesses the desire, he is not it personified.

All other names burn and crumble beneath the fire, and he can finally pull down every wall and barrier that he has encased himself in.

He is himself, and he is free.

 **So, this was just a quick one shot that randomly sprung to mind whilst I was home alone (and also still proving that I am alive). It's been a good way to try and kick the writer's block that has been plaguing me the last few months, but I promise, I have been writing for my other fics and hope to update very soon now I'm on my summer holiday from university. This is slightly different from what I've written in the past, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. I chose to not name a character in this so you can read from whichever perspective you'd like. I did write with one Tracy in mind, but I'm fairly certain any would work.**

 **Please let me know what you thought - I always appreciate a review and it may help me get the motivation to write once again. This is also my first ever one shot, so some feedback would be great in how I could improve in the future.**

 **baao**


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